


Surrender

by diemarysues



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Crusader AU, Crusades, First Time, Light Smut, M/M, Softporn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 21:57:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2244741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diemarysues/pseuds/diemarysues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>If something is so perfect, so beautiful that it could only be God’s will, how could it possibly be wrong?</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Sequel to Unbearable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surrender

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nutzone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutzone/gifts).



> *grumbles* So much for only being inspired for the one fic. This is entirely closet's fault. [First fic here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2153298) (it precedes this one, so if you want a little more context...)
> 
> As always, the [AU](http://closetshipping.tumblr.com/tagged/muslim-thorin) is the brainchild of [closetshipping](http://closetshipping.tumblr.com), and this is the [art](http://closetshipping.tumblr.com/post/95623183349/if-something-is-so-perfect-so-beautiful-that-it) that brought this fic about. Summary from the caption.
> 
> [And again, proper fic for this AU is already being planned by [loyalty-honour-a-willing-heart](http://loyalty-honour-a-willing-heart.tumblr.com).]
> 
> Note: the Crusaders and Saracens did not refer to themselves as either of those terms. The Crusaders called themselves "Franks" (Franci) and as far as I can figure out, the Saracens were the "Seljuks". If this is inaccurate, please do let me know.

There is no rush.

 

They hold hands as they pass from sunshine into shade, fingers tangled together as if they’ll never let go. Truth be told, neither wants to let go. They have found one another, found this love in the midst of a war born from hate; they don’t want to lose it. They don’t want to lose each other.

 

Within the walls the air is cool despite the bright heat of the day. They separate only for a moment, disrobing; eyes intent on every movement and making them simultaneously brave and shy. It’s not as if they haven’t seen each other in various states of undress. It’s not as if they haven’t seen other men completely bare. Now though, now there is purpose and promise in their gaze. Now they know that _looking_ is not all they will do.

 

The bed is far too small for both of them at once, no matter how closely they press together, so they strew the sheets and pillows on the floor where their clothes have fallen. They'd both had to make do with sleeping on hard ground – on cold stone, on bloody dust, on wet grass – so this is no trouble.

 

Every hardship falls away as they fall to the floor and find comfort in each other's arms.

 

There are so many differences between them. Thorin is tall and broad and rough, eyes pale and lips thin, his hair dark as night with starry strands of silver. Bilbo is small and wiry and smooth, voice soft and smile wicked, hazel eyes bright as jewels and framed by golden lashes. Both are scarred within and without, and both are pressed together as close as can be, the colour of their bodies starkly dissimilar but all the more beautiful for it.

 

When they kiss it’s as if they’ve done it a thousand and one times, natural as breathing. They separate only when absolutely needed, noses brushing, eyes half-lidded. They still tremble with desire in their loose embrace, their touch gentle, gentle, gentle.

 

They don't know what they're doing, not really. Fingers carefully feather their explorations, leisurely gaining confidence and pressure, calling forth sighs and shudders. To press kisses to scarred skin seems natural, seems right. They are careful and then not; savouring the taste of each other on their tongues.

 

There are so many places on their bodies that did not seem so intimate before this; the underside of a jaw, the inside of an elbow, the side of a knee. It is pleasing to watch the response even the ghost of a breath elicits, but they always return to kissing. Even with their eyes closed they learn the ridges and dips of their bodies. To trail the tips of fingers over the bobbing apple of a throat, to trace the jut of a hip, to brush hair behind an ear, to encircle a wrist; such simple movements are filled with so much meaning and emotion, lending weightiness to the joy of their coupling but not diminishing it.

 

On their sides, their legs tangle together. One has slung his over the other's hip, the other has slipped his thigh between the one's. It's almost too intimate, this contact, shuddering quaking _aching_ pleasure as they clumsily push against each other. Fingers now grip too tight, skin slippery with sweat. They touch foreheads and share breaths, tasting unfamiliar words as they drop from each other's mouths.

 

What had been slow is now fast. Desperate. They chase unknown longing – it is almost as if they are running across wide fields, their chests are heaving, panting air through open mouths. The space between them is as thin as gold leaf, decreasing further as they grow more urgent. This search, this need for friction is instinct that they _must_ satisfy – pressure as they’ve never felt before dances up their spine and courses through their bodies. Yet their thoughts begin and end with _Bilbo_ and _Thorin_.

 

Their fingers intertwine, and it is their only contact with the Earth as their bodies surrender to the pleasures of Heaven.

 

 

 

After, they stay close.

 

Thorin does not want to let Bilbo out of his sight, and it warms him to know that the other man feels the same. They still cannot understand each other, but these feelings go beyond words. Their touches say more than words can, reverent strokes and pleased smiles more valuable than pretty phrases and poetic promises.

 

Thorin does not speak, but he does promise. He sifts honey-brown curls through his still-stained fingers and swears that he will repay Bilbo for all his compassion. He smiles down at Bilbo’s joyous face and pledges to protect him from the many evils of the world. He leans down into the gentle touch along his temple and vows to give his life so Bilbo will not die.

 

If they are found, Thorin will distract the enemy so Bilbo may escape – and funny how ‘enemy’ now encompasses both the Seljuks and the Franks. With his newly healed wounds the fight may last minutes, may last seconds, but to spill his blood to stop the shedding of Bilbo’s… there are worse fates.

 

Bilbo would surely protest. He is kind-hearted, just, and _pure_. He has brought Thorin back from the brink of death, and Thorin will make sure to save his life in return. Hopefully one day Bilbo will find it possible to forgive him; even if he does not, Thorin will understand. The most important thing is that Bilbo will have that one day.

 

He is pulled out of his thought when Bilbo catches his hand and brushes a kiss in the middle of his palm. Thorin chuckles are deep and prompt delighted laughter, laughter that he absolutely has to lean down and taste. Clever fingers stroke down the ridges of his spine, and Thorin hums against Bilbo’s mouth.

 

For now they are alive and safe and together.

 

That is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> One day I'll stop with one-word titles.  
> Goodnight.


End file.
